Jötunnmachen
by Redumdelta
Summary: Harry Potter as a minor god. Not a crossover.


**Disclaimer:** All of Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling and her publishers, whoever they are. Any reference to any other media series is not meant to be infringement and I make no profit from the following.

* * *

Imagine a Harry Potter who is physically powerful, like Blessed Blood. Had this idea after re-reading Vinland Saga. Thors is the greatest character ever (probably because we only ever saw how awesome he was).

The poem in the beginning is copied form wikipedia, and has its own sources which im sure are posted on the link: wiki/V%C3%B6lusp%C3%A1_hin_skamma

* * *

 _Eru völur allar_ _frá Viðolfi,_ _vitkar allir_ _frá Vilmeiði,_

(All the witches spring from Witolf,) (All the warlocks are of Willharm,)

 _en seiðberendr_ _frá Svarthöfða,_ _jötnar allir_ _frá Ymi komnir._

(And the spell-singers spring from Swarthead;) (All the ogres of Ymir come.)

- _ **Völuspá hin skamma from Gylfaginning of the Prose Edda**_

With the birth of time, we have the concept of causality. The idea that events follow one another lets us forget quite often just how different a dimension that which we consider time to be from the physical constraints we can see. All things begin somewhere, and yet it is every little step in the sequence of events the lends to us the result. The beginning of the legend of Harry Potter started, as it were with emptiness. Blackness so utterly void that even blackness and void could not be comprehended. Then there was a spark. In the darkness so absolutely _nothing_ , something happened, and that something was. Then in the rush of impossible events, that spark grew and spread. Thus the universe came to be, though, perhaps this was a multiverse (after all, at that point who could tell). The point is that the there are many starting points after all "a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step" and there a number steps to that journey itself.

Harry James Potter was born on July 31, 1980 to James "Prongs" Potter and Lily Marie Potter née Evans at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries as the first halfblood of a long enough line of pureblooded Potters that his magic was a level even above that of his ancestors. He grew into his magic in a loving home that encouraged his self to greater heights. This was the seed that could have made him a second Albus Dumbledore or even another Tom Riddle. Following the deaths of his parents, however, Harry Potter was left on the doorstep of Number 4 Privet Drive in Surrey, the house of his maternal aunt on November 2, 1981.

* * *

Winter chills aren't unbearable for humans magical and non-magical alike, but children should never be left out in the cold. A 1 year old Harry Potter was no exception to this, and he lay there, swaddled, kept asleep by a charm cast by a wand fashioned by Death himself. Chills set into his body and his magic and, without a conscious mind to direct them, they could only accept the cold. By the time his aunt had discovered him on the doorstep, he'd lain there for quite a few hours. So long, in fact, that he'd gone white and was covered in frost. As one can imagine, a woman, new to the duties of motherhood, like Petunia Dursley was near catatonic with fear at the sight of what could only be an old-fashioned adoption attempt gone wrong. With further inspection, it would turn out to be worse. The boy was alive, though barely, and the monsters that lived on the other side of decency were invading HER life.

Vernon came down at her screams and was just as bewildered by the kick in the pants they'd been given. He'd near bellowed out for the neighbors to hear before she'd shushed him all about these 'irresponsible layabouts and drunks who were attempting to intrude upon their idyllic lives.' Then she'd had to sit him down to actually _explain_ about her sister and _her kind_ and how all this nonsense was that had no right to be messing with them, especially with the laws in place to keep them away and busy with their own.

'Well,' he'd said, 'we certainly can't be holding with that hooliganry in OUR house! I'll take the day off and send the-the boy to an orphanage away from here. It's a family matter, after all, and we'll be done with all that.'

But Petunia was reading the letter that they'd pried out of the blankets and then she'd been even more frightened. 'They'll come after us if we don't Vernon! They're saying that we have too or the boy will die and if we keep him, then the others will keep away. Something to do with my sister that's supposed to protect our family. They'll watch us to make us take the boy!'

'Fine! Fine, if we're to take the boy, then we'll take him. But we'll not be talking about that kind of nonsense. Demon worship and all that. It's unholy and we won't be holding with that sort of thing in our house! If he does anything, I'll make sure he doesn't do it again! Firm hand 'll keep him in line. Just got to make him work for his keep and make him honest.'

* * *

Harry Potter was given to muggles that wizards the world over had spent centuries hiding from, those that hated them for their magic and the Dursleys in turn, who prided themselves on their normalcy went to work at keeping things, well, normal and did their utmost best to 'stamp the nonsense out of him.' It started with little things when Harry first tried to call a toy to himself from a pile across the room a two days into his stay. Vernon went ballistic when the stuffed dinosaur started dancing and hissing. He came down on Harry like a bull and had him bundled up and tossed into the the broom cupboard before the young wizard could begin to protest such treatment. Not realizing anything beyond that it'd gone dark, little Harry settled down for a midday nap. This pattern repeated itself for almost a week where, the moment he used magic, harry would be put into the broom cupboard, until one day, when Harry had the focus to remember the toy he'd just found and began to cry over the loss. That cry had turned into a tantrum which began to cause the furniture to shake as the frustration built up. In his panic, Vernon kicked at the door and yelled for the boy to ' _BE QUIET!_ ' and it should really come as no surprise that the loud noise resounding through the cupboard cut off the tantrum right quick.

Thus did the Dursleys come up with a place to better control the little unnatural freak that plagued their home and, after a little while, it seemed that they might as well keep the boy there as there was no way they'd spend their hard earned money on the monstrous little thing to get a new crib. Then they'd found that their dear Dudley was a fast growing boy and the clothes that fit him last month wouldn't anymore and, well, there was no sense in wasting money on the freak so he might as well be grateful. And so, for the first few years, Harry Potter was locked away downstairs in the cupboard, without a blanket on occasion, when he was being punished for any number of things from freakishness to being ungrateful, with the leavings of his relatives and nothing of his own.

Harry could already walk autonomously within months of his acceptance and could understand simple sentences and commands within a year and a half. When Dudley pointed at the other boy in house over the house, it only made sense to have the ungrateful little brat take care of his own mess and maybe even make himself useful. When a meal was ruined over Petunia's overenthusiastic fussing of her Dudders, well. It had to be the freak's fault. And when the anything else was out of place or when things hadn't gone well that day, it would have to be because the freak did something.

Harry Potter was an outlet for the Dursley family. He was the easy help and scapegoat. When Petunia needed anything done, he had to do it: cooking, gardening, cleaning, carrying (not shopping though, that would leave him money that he could steal). Harry became convenient, such that even he failed to notice the abnormality in being able to lift a bed at 5 years old to vacuum underneath. Vernon had an outlet for his failures at the office. The beatings began when Dudley first actually blamed Harry for his clumsiness and Vernon Dursley sought to beat out the dangerous freakishness from his nephew before it could hurt _his_ family anymore than that. Dudley grew up watching the Freak beaten, and, when one day he took the initiative to hit his cousin on his own before his dad could, he was surprised at the pride that his father had shown in him. But that had taught him. The freak was to be hit. When his grades were below the Freak's he would hit him for cheating. When the Freak had something, hit him for stealing and keep the card or coin or bar.

* * *

 _It_ happened in July. A more observant spectator would note that it happened on July 30, 1987.

Petunia was freaking out. Vernon had had a particularly bad day at work― something about Smithson blaming him for something that had gone wrong in a deal that her Vernon had handed over to his subordinates and they'd messed up―and then he'd really laid it on that evening. Even if she hated the boy for his-its silent mocking of her life. The way that it had simply lain there limbs askew and twisted in ways that no normal human could bear to live with. Well, once she'd carried it to the cupboard, with Vernon's help once he'd finally snapped out of it, she had immediately gone to grab some aspirin and penicillin and tried to make the boy take them. She hadn't even realized how many she'd fed him in her panic and now he was absolutely still, not even twitching anymore. Closing the door, wringing her hands, she almost screamed at Vernon, that he'd gone too far, but she knew that now wasn't the time to yell at him for it. He was in the kitchen pouring a cup of whiskey, but at least he'd made a cup for her as well. Downing it in one sip, she told him to put the bottle back and to just go upstairs and go to bed. She set about to cleaning the floors and, exhausted from the whole ordeal, soon followed after him.

The next day, she woke up half an hour later than usual and, in her panic, forgot what had happened the previous night, banging on the door, yelling for the lazy freak to wake up. He came out just as she recalled the events of evening last, disheveled, bloody, but standing. Not wanting to think on it, she forced him upstairs to shower and clean up before going back down to make breakfast before Vernon went to work and she took Dudley to the Polkiss boy's house for the day. Just another way for the _freak_ to spite her.

* * *

He'd lain there, in the cold, the heat of pain burning across his back, coiled and twisted ropes of fire in his limbs. He could feel himself reaching out _oncemore_ , the yearning for peace _sofamiliar_ , as his wounds grew colder—even as the blood in his body grew hotter and hotter—the feeling of emptiness as liquid life dripped from his body onto the floor of his cell. And in that blackness that overtook him was a light that even as it shone to him shone upon the blackness of a different kind that was threatening to eclipse him in his flight. And it was _pain_ , PAIN in a way that could not be for there was no pain so much as a WRONG that could not be right-something that _shouldnotcouldnot_ be. And even as the abomination had tried to wrap around him, it was shackled in his body and by his life that was not his. But as it approached, he felt heat and thinking the heat was pain, he reached out to the cold, the blackness, the emptiness, the _coldsocold_ to rest and the void touched him back like a kiss on the cheek as it turned from him to the false darkness that had a heat that was no more.

As frost formed over the walls of the little broom cupboard-under-the-stairs that Harry lived in, black blood, mingled with red, dripped from the scar that marked his temple, coalescing into an orb. The pearl of black and red fell onto the floor and burst apart into dust that was sucked into the gasping mouth of The Boy Who Lived.

Even as oblivion claimed him—after the false shadow was gone—a new sensation emerged, resounding through the emptiness. Satisfaction. The void was pleased.

* * *

It all came to a head when Harry went back to primary School at the age of 7 and his class had a new teacher. Jennifer Adams was absolutely shocked when she saw, on her first day at her new job, a primary schooler lift an entire table with one hand while cleaning up. She had asked the boy to stay behind because of the rumors from her colleagues so that she could observe him a bit more and come up with a way to deal with the Potter had been told to clean up the classroom so he went about the usual business of moving the furniture out of the way so that he could clean the floor (he assumed that the lack of a vacuum meant that he would have to clean up by hand) when his teacher had screamed. Flinching at the sound, and expecting the beatings usually associated with his aunt's screaming, Harry immediately dropped the table and curled up purely on reflex. Peeking out from behind his hands, he could see his new teacher braced against her desk and it was entirely because of this reaction that the young Ms. Adams was _not_ running out the room but actually concerned about a child that had demonstrated such an extreme reaction.

"H-Harry...are you...alright?"

Unsure as to how to respond to the completely foreign idea of an adult that cared about his opinion, Harry remained silent, expecting a trick of some kind,though he continued watching from behind his arms. He flinched as Ms. Adams righted herself and made to approach him. In his fear, he curled tighter, remembering that trying to escape would only make the beatings more severe.

Seeing the child so obviously expecting a physical confrontation, she took a breath to collect her bearings, sure now that the boy's behaviour was completely unnatural, even for a troublemaker, she stopped, turned back to her desk to retrieve a toffee that she kept to reward students.

"Harry, would you please stand up? I would like to speak with you about any problems that you may be having with adjusting to school." She spoke gently to ensure that her new student that she meant him no harm. "I've been told by your previous teacher, Mrs Davidson, that you had problems with the other students in her class. She said that you and the other boys and girls don't really get along and i was hoping that we could maybe fix that."

Harry got up slowly and hesitantly as he watched Ms. Adams kneel down across from the table, outside of grabbing distance. Gathering his courage, he spoke his part according to the rules that he'd grown up with, just as Petunia had always instructed him. "No Miss Adams, I don't have any problems with the others."

Seeing the boy, watching him more carefully, she could see that he was small, even for a 7 year old, though that notion may have simply have been exaggerated by the clothing he wore. His hair was messy his glasses were broken, and his shoes could not possibly have been meant for a child. That, along with clothing that was obviously old and meant for an adult, gave a very strange sense of incongruence with the other children at the school. After all, the district was a rather well off area―it was why her parents had acquiesced with the her moving out for her first job so far away from her home―it made no sense that he should be dressed so poorly.

Suspicious, she asked, "Who do you not get along with the most, Harry? Is it Alice?"

"No ma'am, I don't have any problems with anyone."

"Is it Dudley?" She tried again, trying for the fat little boy that had had so many others surrounding him.

Harry shook his head frantically to deny the question refusing to look up. And there was the reaction she was looking for. Dudley Dursley was the boy's cousin wasn't he? _He_ certainly had fine clothing, brand new even, she recalled, the fat little boy had been showing off a brand new back pack and stationery set that all the other boys had spent a long time envying just that day. There was something wrong there with the idea that the two were related, given such a disparity between their school supplies and dress.

"It's Dudley, isn't it. He's your cousin, am i correct?...Does he bully you?"

No response, just a tightening feeling.

"Is he why the others won't play with you? Does he bully them? Is it―"

Harry was frightened. The attention she was giving him terrified him and he wanted nothing more than for the 'talk' to stop. He curled up inside himself, shutting his eyes to not look up and stayed silent. If the Dursleys heard about this, Uncle Vernon was sure to bring out the cricket bat again. He just wanted to be alone, safe, even back in his cupboard, away from all the people who would get him hurt.

Jennifer could see the boy cringe inwardly, and clam up and she felt so for the child, but even as he shut his eyes, the air changed. She felt the chills, at first assuming them to her feelings regarding the treatment of the poor boy. Then a puff appeared, fog growing around her as her own breath fogged in front of her stopping her mid-sentence.

This was something completely unexpected, something so completely out of the ordinary that it went far beyond the idea of an abnormally strong child. A boy who was both strong AND could make the air freeze. She found her mind drawing a blank on this, but even as she once more fell into shock, she found herself again focusing on the boy in front of her. She saw the fear and pain etched into the silhouette of little Harry and found herself reaching forward to comfort the child.

Harry felt the hands approaching him, and it only terrified him more as he attempted to retract deeper into himself and wait for it to all be over. So it was complete and utter astonishment as a near alien feeling of arms wrapping around him that jolted him out of his fear as he suddenly opened his eyes to find himself in the warm embrace of an adult. He'd seen it happen to other children, but then, they weren't _FREAKS_.

Jennifer Adams could feel the fear the boy was seized with the moment her arms made contact with his back and she was overwhelmed with pity towards the child who had, in all likelihood, never been treated as a human being in all his life. The part of her that had driven her to her dream and calling of children was all for mothering the poor child―he was an orphan in the truest sense―who absolutely _needed_ some love, but then, even as she knew this, she also knew that something needed to be done about the horrible monsters who'd terrorized the boy.

"Harry, I need to ask you if anyone else knows about what has been done to you. Will you please tell me? I really do need to know, otherwise it will be a lot harder for me to help you." She spoke softly to soothe the poor boy, coaxing him.

"I―I don't know, th-there was a lady w-who came by a, a year ag-go but sh-she n-never c-came back. I-it was because I-I'm a f-fr- _freak_." It all came spilling out of him as Harry poured himself into the warmth that he'd never felt before and it all just felt so _good_ as each word tumbled past lips, his spirit feeling lighter and lighter. He told her about how dark it was in his cupboard and how much it hurt each time his uncle had brought out first the fist, then the belt, then the bat, and then the pipe and how **cold** he always felt afterwards even as his back burned. He spoke about the endless failures as he tried again and again to do the work he was given so that he could avoid the beatings, the loneliness of staring at the dark walls of his 'room' as he listened to his cousin count his presents, and sing songs, and play with his family, and be happy with other people. Harry talked and talked until he no longer had anything to say, just slowly crying in the bittersweet joy that he had found in a person he'd not known for more than a few hours, all while feeling gentle hands― _her_ gentle hands―caress his back as he spilled out his soul, crooning at intervals―expressions of love he had never even known could exist but was now experiencing. And it was so wonderful and terrible all at once.

She could feel the cold retreat as the boy in her arms slowly, at first, share the horrible details of the difficult life that he'd lived so far in his short seven years. The abuse had started small, with neglect and verbal disparagement, and had then grown over the years to chores and _beatings_ , of all things. She gave encouragement to the child when he stilted over particularly painful memories, letting him vent all the venom that his relatives had dumped upon his tiny little shoulders, and, when he was finally done, she held on as he did her and patted him as his gentle sobs subsided.

When he finally let her go, she gave him a gentle squeeze before pulling him up.

"Does your aunt care about whether you arrive home soon? No. Don't answer that, I already know." The pause was deep. "Well now, I think I know what we should do. You are coming with me mister and we're going to find a place for you to spend the night because you are sure as all that's holy not going back to your―" And here she sniffed to give him her opinion of his so-called family, "―caretakers. They certainly don't know how to treat a special boy such as yourself."

* * *

This was the first person he could remember to have ever shown him any form of kindness for more than glances of pity that shifted to discomfort, and she said she would get him away from the Dursleys. More than any other person had ever tried because to everyone else he was a freak and an abomination. But even as he felt that little bit of hope that he could finally have a family, the walls came tumbling down.

In the doorway of the classroom, stood an elderly man, all white hair and blue cloth with little silvery half-moons everywhere, even in the shape of his spectacles. Even before Ms. Adams could turn to ask the man if he was lost or looking for something, he waved a stick and shot a blue white light at her.


End file.
